The West End smelled like smoke and wet straw. Thin, wind-bitten faces lined the alleys, mouths moving around words that had been said so often they had lost meaning: hungry, hungry, hungry. Qingxue had expected the worst. She had not expected the silence that lived in people's eyes — the kind of hollow that a long winter carves into a town.
She moved through the crowd like a stone through water, not turning away from anyone. Men straightened their spines when they saw the Queen, then slumped again when they saw the line of guards. Children glanced up and looked away. Old women with sleeves sewn to their palms touched her robe with the ghosts of courtesy and then hid the calluses of their hands.
